


Nelumbo Lutea

by peppermintquartz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Other Characters - Freeform, some slight edits that differ from the print
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/pseuds/peppermintquartz
Summary: i have written a book! Please consider purchasing one.





	Nelumbo Lutea

Somehow, they survive hitting the water.

Somehow, they do not bleed out into the Atlantic.

Perhaps Death does not want them yet.

The ocean spits them back into the land of the living.

 

“ _Why don't I have a mommy, dad?All the other kids do.”_

“ _Momma's been gone for a long time, Will. It's just you and me.”_

“ _Why's she gone, Dad?”_

“ _People come and go all the time. They're like tides that way.”_

“ _That means she's coming back, right? If she's like the tides?”_

“ _It depends. Come on, we gotta get home. You've got homework before dinner.”_

 

Hannibal drags him out of the water. He struggles to his feet first, to seek a means of transport for them.

How that man has the strength to do all that, Will has no idea. He can barely summon enough energy to breathe. The grains of sand that stick to his skin command his full attention. They are all different. Will has always known this fact, but only as an abstract concept. Now he's staring at them, and can pick out the deviations in shape and color.

He manages a tiny smile. People and grains of sand.

Identically different.

Look at people from a great distance and they all blur together.

 

“ _Will. You can't lose focus now.”_

“ _Jack, I don't want to lose focus, but sometimes there is nothing to focus on!”_

“ _We can't do this without you!”_

“ _So find a way! Just because you need an answer doesn't mean I can give it to you. My mind doesn't work like that, Jack!”_

“ _Then_ _ **make**_ _it work like that!”_

 

When Hannibal finally gets them to another safe house, Will is ready to pass out. He has never felt so tired in his life, nor been in so much agony. He can't even be sarcastic about the number of safe houses and backup plans Hannibal has ready.

“I never gave mothers enough credit for going through labor,” he says while Hannibal gets a first-aid kit out from a closet. “If it is half as exhausting as this, then they all deserve three times as much as men give them credit for.”

“Pain is a good indicator of life.” replies Hannibal, his voice soft as he snaps on gloves and threads a needle. “It's the first sensation we feel after we leave the womb.”

Drunk on adrenaline and fatigue, Will drawls, “I think I prefer the absence of it.”

Hannibal's touch is very gentle as he puts Will back together. “There are better indicators.”

 

“ _You look like you need some water.”_

“ _Uh, thanks.”_

“ _I don't know you, do I?”_

“ _No, you don't.”_

“ _I'm Alana Bloom. I teach at Georgetown.”_

“ _Will Graham.”_

“ _Nice to meet you. I've read your work.”_

“ _You're being friendly.”_

“ _Guilty as charged. So, is it working?”_

“ _You like dogs?”_

“ _I'll adopt one once I get tenure. No fair to the dog if I have to move across the country to someplace that doesn't allow dogs, you know?”_

“ _It's working.”_

“ _What?”_

“ _The ploy. Friendliness.”_

“ _Good to know.”_

 

Once Hannibal judges them well enough, they move to a quiet place south of the border. Most of the residents of the village are elderly folk; the younger generation has long since gone to the city to work.

The villagers leave them alone.  _Poor dears. Convalescing after a terrible accident._ Sometimes they bring home-cooked dishes to the two newcomers, and accept their thanks with cheerful, wrinkly smiles.

Once a week Hannibal cycles to the market on a bicycle to buy their groceries. When the doctor's away, Will cleans the house for want of something to do that does not require thinking. He thinks he'll enjoy gardening. The house is a modest cottage with two bedrooms and a kitchen that's barely half the size of the one in Hannibal's old house. Will chooses the smaller room and cannot decide if he's disappointed that Hannibal does not share it with him.

It's a rare experience for Will not to have any demands on his time. Even in the intervening years with Molly, he kept himself busy with research and writing and dogs. Not to have any demands on his time is a rarity. He doesn't know what to do with all the empty stretches of minutes and seconds.

 

“ _Graham, I swear to God, if you had died because of that nutcase, I was gonna buy an Ouijia board and raise your ghost and beat your skinny ghost ass.”_

“ _It's just a stab wound, Jones.”_

“ _Just a stab wound, the man says. Look, you could've taken the shot. Why didn't you?”_

“ _I don't know.”_

“ _Come on, man, you always been straight with me. You had him in your sights, clear as day. Why didn't you pull the trigger?”_

“ _Jones, I'm a fuckload of pain right now. I don't know why I didn't shoot. Now fuck off and let the paramedic give me some painkillers.”_

 

Soon after they moved in, Hannibal begins teaching Will how to use a kitchen knife properly. In return, Will teaches Hannibal how to cook jambalaya. Hannibal learns a lot faster than Will.

Neither discuss the past.

Their shared history lies in the depths of the Atlantic, as far as Will is concerned. He hopes it is washed into a trench. He does not look for information on his family. He leaves his wedding ring by the pond. When he goes back the next day, the ring is gone.

Hannibal doesn't comment on his bare finger. He does, however, spend the following morning sketching Will as he drinks coffee. When Will asks to look afterwards, he sees that Hannibal has drawn a close-up of his hand, and feels a tightness in his chest at the care taken to depict the slight indentation left on his ring finger.

Maybe eventually the ring will find its way to Molly. Stranger things have been known to happen. He hopes it does and he hopes it doesn't.

 

“ _You've done well in Homicide.”_

“ _Yes sir.”_

“ _Now you want to go into teaching.”_

“ _Yes sir.”_

“ _We closed a lot of cases because of you, Graham.”_

“ _With all due respect, sir, you can continue to do that without me, sir.”_

“ _Not without that... thing... you do. The whole 'think like a murderer' schtick. No one else can do it.”_

“ _You don't need to do it to find clues, sir, and that's what I do. Did. I'd like to stop doing it, sir.”_

“ _Any reason?”_

“ _Sir. Permission to be brutally frank, sir.”_

“ _Go ahead.”_

“ _Everyone in the precinct thinks I'm either crazy or a murder junkie getting a fix. They think that I can think like a murderer because I am secretly one. They don't say it, but they think it. They think it loudly. Even Jones has asked for a transfer. I would prefer to stop being the poster boy for 'resident freak', sir.”_

“ _...Brutally frank, huh.”_

“ _Sir.”_

“ _Alright, you're out. Good luck with the FBI, kid.”_

 

There's a pond near their cottage. Will likes to go there to look at the ducks and geese. Hannibal goes with him sometimes, and he feeds them bits of shredded cabbage or lettuce.

“Nelumbo lutea,” he says one afternoon, apropos of nothing.

Will looks up at Hannibal's aristocratic face. “The yellow lotus?”

“The tubers are nutritious,” says Hannibal. “Native Americans distributed it north when they spread over the continent.”

Will smiles. “Do you want me to get the tubers?”

“I will,” says Hannibal with a smile. He bends at the waist and pulls off his shoes and socks. He wiggles his toes in the grass, and then sheds his shirt and rolls up the legs of his trousers. 

In this climate, Hannibal has chosen lightweight cotton shirts and linen trousers. Denim still has no place in the older man's wardrobe. Nevertheless, Will wants to see him wear jeans – Hannibal has the legs for it.

His feet are elegant too. Will has never considered the appeal of feet before, but seeing Hannibal barefoot in the grass brings to mind ballet and gymnastics. He wonders if Hannibal is a good dancer. He probably is.

Hannibal steps into the pond carefully and wades until he is knee-deep in the water. He shifts his weight and wobbles – Will thinks he is about to slip when he realizes that Hannibal is uprooting the tuber from the mud. The water seeps into his linen pants. Hannibal grasps a lotus by its stem and tugs.

The tuber comes up and Hannibal shakes off the mud clinging to it in the water. He holds it up like a fisherman with his prize catch.

Will laughs at Hannibal's smile. He laughs so hard that his belly aches.

 

“ _Now that Ms Bloom is out of the way, let's clear some things up.”_

“ _I thought everything is eminently clear, Mr Brauer.”_

“ _The facts won't sell the case, Mr Graham. Emotions will. And you, Mr Graham, absorb emotion like a sponge and reflect it like a mirror, if I understand your empathy disorder properly.”_

“ _...what do you want?”_

“ _Ideally, that you are acquitted. And to be able to get there, I wonder if there is anyone I can put in the witness stand that will amplify your... skill.”_

“ _You are a consummate salesman, Mr Brauer.”_

“ _I'll take that as a compliment.”_

“ _The only two persons sympathetic to me are Alana Bloom, whom you've insulted, and Dr Hannibal Lecter.”_

“ _Whom you've accused.”_

“ _Guess I'm screwed.”_

“ _Well. Let's hope Ms Vega puts someone up there that feels badly enough for you that you seem pathetic and small to the jury.”_

“ _Hope is a scant resource in my life, Mr Brauer.”_

“ _I'll hope enough for both of us, Mr Graham. See you tomorrow.”_

 

“Did you know that the lotus is a symbol of rebirth and enlightenment?” asks Hannibal. He has cleaned up, and he's cleaned up the lotus tuber too.

Will is rinsing salad greens at the sink. “No, I didn't. Is that why Buddha is depicted seated on a lotus?”

“A lotus begins its life in the mud and blooms only when it is above water.” Hannibal walks over and washes his hands. His elbow touches Will's. “Rising above the vulgar muck and becoming beautiful.” 

Will thinks about the pale yellow-white flowers, their delicate petals waving in the faint breeze. He thinks he understands Hannibal a little more today.

That is enlightenment, of a sort.

 

“ _So how did you name your dogs?”_

“ _Some would come with names, others... Well, I liked old movies. Silent era.”_

“ _So Buster was named after Buster Keaton?”_

“ _Yeah.”_

“ _Cool.”_

“ _...did you have any pets?”_

“ _No. Mom didn't like animals much. And dad- I mean. He didn't see the point. They were food, or pelt, or, I don't know. Resources.”_

“ _Maybe you could have a dog or a cat, after you're out of here. Or maybe after college.”_

“ _Really?”_

“ _Yeah, Abigail. I think you'd be a good pet owner.”_

“ _What do you think Dr Lecter would say to me getting a pet?”_

“ _Probably nothing. He'd accept that it's your desire to have one, and he'd be curious why you'd like one, but I doubt he'd sway you one way or the other.”_

“ _Dr Lecter really doesn't judge, does he?”_

“ _No. No, he really doesn't.”_

 

The ducks recognize Hannibal as someone who feeds them, and come crowding up when the man appears. Will stifles a giggle when the older man shoos away the enthusiastic birds after all the food has been given to them.

“Chiyoh would like these birds,” says Hannibal.

Will snorts. “Yes, to hunt.”

“And perhaps to keep. She is too full of affection and loyalty not to want a pet.”

Will bumps his elbow against Hannibal's side. “Would you want a pet?”

Hannibal mulls over the question, and then shakes his head. “I don't have the necessary patience.”

 

“ _When did you first start fishing?”_

“ _I was... seven, probably. Dad took me and it was nice. Just sitting together, not talking. Learning to be silent.”_

“ _These fishing trips were good memories.”_

“ _It was hard, growing up and not knowing... not knowing what to do with myself. The empathy was not a good complement to puberty.”_

“ _Your father was able to help ease you through it?”_

“ _The fishing. And my father. I learned patience from him. I learned to watch, to wait. And I learned when to take action.”_

 

Will drinks a lot less now. He was not allowed to drink back when he was recovering, and now he has little reason to drink.

He knows that Hannibal sometimes mourns the loss of his wine collection. In particular, the bottle that Will gifted him way back when he'd thought Hannibal nothing more than an eccentric psychiatrist.

They don't talk about its loss, however. For some reason, neither of them talks about their shared slaying of Francis Dolarhyde. Will wonders if Hannibal thinks of that night often. Will does.

He didn't have an exact plan when he went with Hannibal to that house. He just wanted it to be over, one way or the other. For Dolarhyde to kill Hannibal, or for Hannibal to kill Dolarhyde.

Or for them to kill him.

And then Hannibal had brought out that bottle. Will had recognized it at once, and he knew Hannibal knew he recognized it. They didn't acknowledge it aloud. It had all been in an instant, a shared gaze, and Will thought he read regret in Hannibal's eyes.

He remembers the moment Dolarhyde shot Hannibal, shattering the bottle, and Will thought,  _It was meant for us._

And then Dolarhyde took out his camera, aiming it at Hannibal, and the clear intent to transform him. Will had thought,  _Hannibal was meant for me. Hannibal is meant for me._

That had been the moment he decided.

He sees Hannibal looking at him at the oddest of times. For instance, Will's putting one of the books back on the shelves, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hannibal staring, a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, like he doesn't quite believe Will is here.

 

“ _Look at him. He's so tiny.”_

“ _And perfect. His hands – already strong enough to grip, look.”_

“ _He's so wrinkly.”_

“ _That's because he's just been born, sweetie.”_

“ _I'm sure he'll have your eyes, blue as the Atlantic.”_

“ _Then I hope he has your curls. He'd be a real beauty.”_

“ _Welcome to the world, William Graham. Hope you enjoy your stay.”_

 

It's a dreary afternoon and they have elected to stay in the house instead of going out to the pond. Hannibal is – big surprise – cooking. He's making a lamb stew. Will is reading, feet curled under him, a throw draped over his knees.

He's warm.

“Here,” says Hannibal, ambling over with a tray laden with a steaming mug and two slices of lemon, “tea.”

It's exactly as sweet as Will likes it, and he squeezes the lemon into the tea. He knows Hannibal prefers coffee, black, with no sugar. He knows that Hannibal knows that he likes coffee the same way in the morning, but prefers tea when he's reading for leisure.

In that instant, Will knows.

He tilts his head back to look at Hannibal puttering about in the kitchen, fussing with the cranky, temperamental oven.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, Will?”

“I love you.”

Hannibal pauses in the middle of whatever he's doing to the oven. He smiles at Will. “I love you too.”

 

“ _I wonder what they'll say.”_

“ _About you? Or about me?”_

“ _About both of us.”_

“ _That we lived, killed, and died.”_

“ _Seems brief.”_

“ _Brevity is the soul of wit.”_

“ _What would you say, if you were to deliver our eulogy?”_

“ _That we have become what we were meant to be. And because of that, we are radiant.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> [i have written a book! Please consider purchasing one.](https://www.akleewrites.com/)


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